


Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better Than You

by aliferuined



Series: getting late to give you up [1]
Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Hate Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, everyone is stupid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-24
Updated: 2012-09-24
Packaged: 2017-11-14 23:19:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliferuined/pseuds/aliferuined
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically, Louis and Nick have grumpy sex and ignore their feelings.</p><p> <br/><i>The thing is, Nick doesn't</i> do <i>boyfriends.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better Than You

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the title is from a Pussycat Dolls song. No, I don't know where this came from.

 

The thing is, Harry _really_ wants them to get along.

 

The other thing is, Nick’s hipster house parties are out-of-control _boring_. Louis likes beer and dancing to Rihanna and initiating food fights at other people’s houses. What he does not like is listening to depressing songs by singers he’s never even heard of and engaging in long conversations about the “narrative of their lyrics” or whatever bollocks Nick won’t stop spouting.

 

“Some people think that they’re dependent on their schtick, but I think it’s just a way to draw attention to the undercurrents of meaning in the lyrics,” says Nick, spilling his drink a little as he gestures. Harry is staring at Nick with bright eyes, nodding in agreement even though Louis is _so_ sure he has absolutely no clue what Nick is on about. Louis’ head is buzzing as he swallows the last of his drink. There’s someone warm pressed up against his side – he can’t remember her name, can’t really remember any of their names – and Nick is _still_ talking. Louis yawns obnoxiously.

 

Nick’s eyes cut to Louis, one eyebrow raised, “Alright there, darling? Surely it’s not bed time already.”

 

Harry titters, turning his big, bright eyes to Louis and practically _begging_ him to find Nick as charmingly witty as he clearly does. Louis has been trying to get a rise out of Nick the whole night, so he’s a little disappointed a yawn was all it took. Nick is surprisingly unflappable until he’s drunk enough mojitos.

 

“This feels startlingly similar to bed time, actually,” he replies, giving Nick his sunniest smile that shows all his teeth. He doesn’t miss the way Nick’s eyes lower.

 

“Louis’ more a Britney Spears kind of boy,” Harry says, desperately trying to salvage the conversation. Nick visibly relents, eyes flicking to Harry’s hopeful face, and Louis mentally fist bumps himself.

 

“Afraid I haven’t gotten around to listening to her latest,” Nick says, still managing to be utterly smug even when he’s trying to make nice. Louis cannot control his eyeroll.

 

He’d never admit it out loud, but Louis knows why Harry is smitten with Nick. He gets it. But Harry’s like a lost puppy, and becoming famous hasn’t changed his astonishing ability to trust absolutely everyone around him without questioning their motives – all he sees are the good parts. Louis sees all of Nick’s famous friends and thinks, _this boy is trouble_. He doesn’t want that for Harry, doesn’t want him to find out the hard way that sometimes your friends aren’t really your friends. Hating Nick is the only way Louis can think of to encourage Harry to be _careful_ for once.

 

“I’m going for a top up,” he says, wiggling his glass. He’s going to need to be far, _far_ drunker than he is to enjoy any part of this evening. He slides his fingers under Harry’s chin as he passes and asks, “Want one, babe?”

 

Harry grins, dopey from wine already, but shakes his head. Nick’s glass is empty, and Louis leaves the room with a spring in his step.

 

***

 

The thing is, Nick really has no clue why Louis hated him so instantly and so completely. He’s almost certain it began before they ever met, if Louis’ (frankly chilling) glare of disdain when Harry finally arranged a meeting was anything to judge by. He’d assume it was down to lover’s jealousy – he’s heard the rumours, alright, and they really _do_ stare at each other for inappropriate lengths of time – but an uncomfortable conversation with Harry cleared that up fairly quickly.

 

It’s not as if Nick feels he’s missing out on much. To be perfectly frank, Louis is bratty, _far_ too bossy for his liking, and is such a _pop star_ in a way Harry never was and (hopefully) never will be. He’s unabashedly practical about the business of music, about their image and exactly what will compel a teenage girl to buy as many useless products plastered with their faces as possible.

 

Plus, Louis manages to dredge up an unpleasantly competitive side of Nick that he’s fairly sure he hasn’t seen since he was a teenager. He’s 27, for God’s sake, and engaging in a battle of wits with a 20-year-old pop star is not flattering.

 

Louis has been gone from the main area for close to twenty minutes before Nick gets concerned. It really, really doesn’t take that long to pour a drink, and he definitely does not trust Louis at large in his house. He’s not in the laundry, or the bathroom – Rita’s in there with some bloke – and he’s not in the kitchen, either. Fantastic.

 

Nick makes his way upstairs, finding Louis flicking through a bookcase in the TV room. He’s clearly been making his way through the room, pawing through Nick’s stuff, and when exactly did he decide it was a good idea to let this boy into his house?

 

“I could have _sworn_ I said not to go upstairs,” Nick drawls, leaning against the door jamb and raising an unimpressed eyebrow. Louis jumps.

 

“Just wanted to see how the famous Grimmy lives,” Louis says casually, as if he knew Nick was there all along. He tosses the book he’s holding behind him, careless, and goes back to inspecting the various knick-knacks and useless things on the bookcase.

 

“I have the complete works of Edith Wharton, if you’re looking for it,” Nick says, because anything posh seems to drive Louis absolutely mad.

 

Louis rolls his eyes for probably the eighth time that night, poking his fingers into a bowl of potpourri with disturbing vigour.

 

“I could have been out tonight, you know. Niall and the boys are at a club opening and won’t stop drunk-tweeting, which _always_ means it’s a good night.”

 

“You have my permission to leave at any point, dear,” Nick replies dryly, feeling an eye twitch coming on, “Though your contributions to the evening have been scintillating.”

 

Nick takes a sip of his drink and Louis flicks potpourri at him, hitting him directly in the cheek.

 

“ _Really_?” Nick asks, fighting the urge to bend Louis over the couch and just _smack_ him. He’s not _that_ old.

 

“I was aiming for the quiff,” Louis shrugs, a sharp little grin tugging at his cheeks.

 

“Why are you here, then?” Nick snaps, frustrated. “I’m fairly certain I can manage to keep Harry entertained for the night all by myself.”

 

“He asked me to come. _Begged_. And despite the fact that this is one of the dullest parties ever attended by famous people, I came. I’m fantastic like that.”

 

“Is that so,” Nick says, and yes, that’s definitely an eye twitch, “Are you certain you weren’t just feeling lonely? Harry and I have been spending a _lot_ of time together, after all.”

 

He doesn’t even know what he’s doing, really. He has no clue why he’s bothering to insinuate anything to do with Harry, when Harry likely tells Louis everything on the nightly sleepover he imagines their home life to be. And he has no idea why he’s standing here, sniping at _Louis Tomlinson_ , when he has a party to host. As a general rule he tries his best not to react to Louis’ bullshit, but he’s been snapping at Nick’s heels all night and he’s always found that the high road looks far less appealing after your fourth drink.

 

“I’ve noticed. Mid-life crisis, is it?” Louis asks, baring his sharp teeth.

 

“I’m _twenty-seven_ – ” Nick starts, cutting himself off, “You know what? I’d really rather not waste my night arguing with the one person here who’s decided to throw a tantrum.”

 

Louis’ face darkens _dangerously_ as he crosses the room.

 

“I find it _hilarious_ that you think you’re better than me, despite the fact you’re a grown adult desperately clinging to the fame of a teenager,” he spits, reaching for Nick’s glass and downing it in one go in a bizarre display of territorialism. It should be ridiculous. It should make Nick laugh, honestly.

 

Instead, he grabs for Louis’ wrist - gripping perhaps a little too hard – practically snarling at Louis’ nasty, pretty little face.

 

“You little _shit_ ,” he starts, but before he can finish Louis pushes himself up on his toes and kisses him.

 

It’s not gentle – Nick would never expect it to be, and he’s man enough to admit that he’s pictured it before. Their teeth clash as they both fight to find a good angle, and then it’s tongue and lips and a sweet taste from the sugary daiquiri Louis insisted on. Nick’s hand has just settled on the small of Louis’ back when there’s a loud crash from somewhere downstairs and they both jump back, staring at each other with an unusual mixture of arousal and fury.

 

“My room’s the third on the left,” Nick offers, surprised by the gravelly sound of his own voice. For a long moment Louis just stares, and Nick is certain he’s about to laugh in his face, or possibly attack him with the left-over potpourri. But Louis blinks, glances once towards the staircase, and slips out of the room and down the hall.

 

Nick closes his eyes, sucking in a deep breath. He feels a little dizzy, and the alcohol is not helping his ability to judge whether or not he should have sex with someone he’d also really, _really_ like to punch.

 

He contemplates it all the way to his bedroom door.

 

“If you even _think_ of telling anyone about this,” Louis says the second the door closes. Nick gives him an incredulous look, walking him backwards until his knees hit the bed and he falls (surprisingly gracefully) onto the mattress. He huffs, glaring up at Nick through that ridiculous fringe, a pretty flush staining his cheeks, and Nick wonders how this became his life as he climbs on top of him.

 

They’re kissing again, Louis nipping at his lips like it’s a fight and he’s there to win. Nick bunches Louis’ shirt up his chest, pushing his thigh in between Louis’ and grinning at the bulge he finds there; Louis growls, pushing his hips up in search of selfish friction.

 

“Such a _twat_ ,” he mumbles, twisting his fingers into Nick’s belt loops as he grinds their hips together. Nick licks into his mouth, fumbling with buttons and flies until the only thing separating them is Nick’s boxers and Louis’ ( _ludicrous_ ) yellow briefs. Louis gasps, his head dropping back onto the pillow as they work up a rhythm with their hips, and Nick ducks his head down to suck marks into Louis’ neck.

 

“Don’tleave hickeys,” Louis hisses, pinching his nipple sharply and making Nick’s hips buck. Nick scrapes his teeth down Louis’ throat and works a hand in between them.

 

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Louis whines, tangling his fingers into the hair at Nick’s nape and arching his back, hips snapping up frantically. He pulls sharply at Nick’s hair, bringing them face to face. His eyes are hooded, lips bitten and swollen, and Nick is _so_ fucked.

 

He cups Louis’ dick, squeezing, his thumb swiping at the head through fabric, and Louis is letting out these choked off little gasps that go straight to Nick’s cock. His toes press into Nick’s calves, curling as his whole body shivers and he’s coming, soaking his underwear and Nick’s hand, eyes squeezed shut.

 

Nick presses his forehead to Louis’ temple, listening to his shuddering breaths and trying valiantly not to just rub himself off on Louis’ hip.

 

“Fuck,” Louis gasps, voice thin. He pushes Nick off him, and before Nick can get righteously furious about his lack of orgasms, Louis worms his hand into his pants and gets a hand on his dick. He curls into Nick’s side, head resting on his collarbone as he watches his own wrist flick.

 

He’s really very, very good. Nick could make a joke about practice, but he’s a little distracted.

 

“Christ, _Lou_ ,” he groans, bucking up into the tight circle of his fist. Louis’ tongue flicks out against his collarbone and that’s _it_ , he’s coming over Louis’ fingers and his own stomach.

 

Nick melts back onto the mattress, dizzy with rum, trying to even out his breathing.

 

Louis hums, swirling his fingers through the come on Nick’s stomach. He guides it down to pool in his bellybutton, because even post-coital Louis is kind of a jerk.

 

It only takes a minute for him to roll away, wiping his hand on Nick’s sheets and doing up his pants with a grimace.

 

“Our little secret, hmm?” Nick asks, embarrassingly breathless.

 

“Obviously,” Louis replies, rolling his eyes, and slams the door behind him.

 

***

 

The thing is, Louis doesn’t exactly hate Nick. He just really, really wants to. Nick is funny in that dry way, and the few times Louis has slipped up and actually _laughed_ at one of his jokes, the self-satisfied grin on Nick’s face had made him instantly regret it. He’s clever, knowledgeable in a way that Harry isn’t but desperately wants to be. And if Louis sometimes ( _sometimes_ ) listens to his radio show when Harry’s out, it’s only because Nick’s voice is so soothing.

 

Nothing even changed after Nick’s party, and it only made Louis _want_ to hate him more. The day after, Louis had driven to pick Harry up from the Radio 1 studio, nervous as hell – sweaty palms and everything, could barely look Nick in the face. But Nick was as aloof as ever, so effortlessly above it all, and he left with Louis feeling one step behind like he always seemed to with Nick. Louis had genuinely thought they were just never going to mention it again, like maybe Nick had spontaneous rage-fuelled handjob encounters all the time, until a week or so later he had ended up in a closet at Zayn’s flat with Nick’s cock in his mouth.

 

_Our little secret._

After that, it sort of escalates. They make excuses to spend more time together, and piss each other off until one of them snaps and they end up having semi-public sex. Louis is an expert in pushing people’s buttons, and Nick’s buttons happen to be particularly easy to push. Harry’s absolutely _delighted_ with them. Or at least, he is until he walks in on them on their living room floor.

 

“No, guys,” Harry howls, his hand covering his eyes, “ _No_.”

 

“Sorry, sorry,” Nick says, tugging up his pants while Louis shrieks with laughter.

 

They comfort Harry over tea and biscuits, and Louis doesn’t bother to try and include Nick in their silent conversation.

 

**

 

Harry’s birthday rolls around, and he emotionally manipulates the both of them into having breakfast with him. Louis is a rubbish cook, but – charitably – he’d gotten up early that morning to make a full fry up for the birthday boy. The bacon is only slightly burnt, and Harry likes his eggs burst all over everything anyway.

 

“Are mushrooms supposed to look like this?” Nick asks, eyeing a decidedly blackened lump. He looks far too put-together for this early in the morning. His jeans are tight enough that they make his legs look even longer, if that were possible, and his hair is perfect. Louis scowls, curling his toes into the cuffs of his tracksuit pants.

 

“I think they’re delicious,” Harry says, scooping up at least half of his and shoving them into his mouth through a bright smile. His curls are drooping into his eyes, and he’s still in his sleep clothes.

 

“Harry here knows the meaning of ‘it’s the thought that counts’,” Louis says, giving Nick a sidelong look, “Besides, I didn’t see you bring anything to the table.”

 

“Well, now that you mention it,” Nick says, waggling his eyebrows at Harry. He pushes away from the table – leaving most of his food, no _manners_ – and retrieves a large, heavy looking parcel from the living room.

 

“Happy birthday, Harold. You’re proper mature now that you’re 18, so I got you something proper mature to celebrate.”

 

Harry whoops – mostly likely assuming it’s either sex or alcohol related – and tears at the paper in a way that is probably not ‘proper mature’. Inside, there’s a record player. It’s wooden, cherry red with brass finishes and a sleek black turntable. Gorgeous, really.

 

Nick got him a record player. Of _course_.

 

“What could he possibly want with that?” Louis scoffs, willing to admit he’s being a little snotty, “He’s got an iPod.”

 

Nick smiles thinly, looking down his long, long nose.

 

“An iPod doesn’t exactly have the sound quality of vinyl, dear. A digital recording doesn’t capture the complete sound wave. Harry here can appreciate these things.”

 

“I _love_ it,” Harry breathes. His eyes are shining and round, face flushed with pleasure. “Will you take me record shopping later?”

 

Louis’ lips twist like he’s tasted something sour. This is the side of Harry he feels like he can’t touch – the side that actually _cares_ about stupid shit like the sound quality of a record player or the latest album by The xx. Nick and Harry gush over the indie little stores they’ll visit in search of the perfect _The Smiths_ record or something, and Louis shovels the leftover bacon into his mouth to avoid leaning over the table and actually biting Nick on the face.

 

Harry fusses over the record player as Nick patiently shows him how to use it, clearly delighted with himself. Louis scrapes Nick’s leftovers into the bin and dumps the dishes in the sink, because fuck if he’s doing the washing up for someone who’s too precious to eat _barely charred_ mushrooms.

 

“Aren’t you supposed to be meeting your mum and Gem?” Louis asks, cutting Nick off mid-sentence. “You’ll be late, Haz.”

 

Harry blinks, his mouth forming an _o_ , and Louis watches fondly as he races around their flat throwing on the closest articles of clothing he can find. Nick packs away the record player as Harry frantically stuffs his curls into a beanie, hands reverent like it’s an actual antique as opposed to something made this year by a hipster with a vintage obsession.

 

“Could you stay and help clean up?” Harry asks, tugging on his shoes and very nearly tripping over his feet in the process, “Lou will just leave the dishes and no one should have to do the washing up on their birthday.”

 

Nick looks to Louis, who shrugs. Harry’s pout is incredibly convincing - Louis knows from experience – and Nick’s shoulders slump in defeat. Harry kisses them both on the cheek as he runs out the door, leaving twin greasy stains from the truly frightening amount of bacon he consumed.

 

“Will you really not help with the dishes?” Nick asks, scrubbing his cheek with the flat of his palm. Louis spares him a withering glance and makes a beeline for the living room without bothering to reply. He hopes Nick gets washing liquid in his eyes.

 

By the time Nick is finished with the washing up Louis is settled on the couch, watching football and idly picking at the threads of a well-worn blanket.

 

“I honestly can’t imagine anything duller than watching football by choice,” Nick says, coming up to rest his elbows on the back of the couch. He smells like lemon soap.

 

“How about doing someone else’s dishes?”

 

“Touche. You should probably look into getting a maid, you know. You can’t just rope unsuspecting house guests into doing your chores for you.”

 

“It’s not my fault you’re gullible enough to fall for his puppy eyes,” Louis says haughtily, as if he doesn’t fall for them on a daily basis, “Why are you still here?”

 

“Oh, that’s fine. Just have me do the dishes and throw me out. It’s all I’m good for, anyway,” Nick sighs dramatically, flicking the back of Louis’ neck.

 

Louis smirks, not taking his eyes off the television.

 

“I can think of something else you’re pretty good for.”

 

Nick hums, thoughtful. Louis can see his reflection in the glass of the television. There’s a crinkle forming in between his eyebrows, and he’s watching Louis’ profile like he’s waiting for something. His face is long and pale, almost aristocratic – and Louis hates himself for even _thinking_ that. He’s tall enough that he’s bent almost double to be able to lean over the back of the couch, and his stupid perfect hair is starting to droop. He’s not even _handsome_ , Louis thinks, swallowing thickly.He drops his head back, meeting Nick’s eyes directly and quirking an eyebrow. He’s nothing if not confrontational.

 

“Thinking about my cock, then?” he asks, going for brash and ending up with more curious than anything. Nick shakes his head in disbelief.

  
“I’ve actually never met a person I’d like to gag more in my entire life.”

 

“Kinky,” Louis says, grinning, and then Nick is kissing him. The angle is off, their necks twisting uncomfortably, so Nick breaks the kiss and climbs over the back of the couch. Louis is already sliding his track pants down, legs spreading with his heels up on the edge of the cushions.

 

“Go on,” he says, gesturing at his own lap. Nick, surprisingly, goes down easily, though not without a supremely unimpressed look. Louis’ hands go straight to his hair, pushing down, but Nick grips his wrists and presses them to the couch. His hands are big and square, with long, pale fingers that wrap easily around Louis’ wrists.

 

“ _No_ ,” he says firmly, and takes Louis into his mouth.

 

Louis shudders, his head rolling to the side and his eyes sliding shut. They’re both quiet as Nick bobs his head, working up to the rhythm he knows Louis likes.

 

“He won’t ever use that record player, you know. And even if he does, he’ll get bored of it soon enough,” Louis says, forcing his voice steady.

 

Nick, incredibly, manages to sigh despite the fact he has a dick in his mouth. He flicks his tongue over Louis’ fraenulum, effectively shutting him up.  Louis rolls his hips up in retaliation, watching his dick disappear into Nick’s mouth.

 

Nick pulls off at that, glaring archly. He blows gently on the tip of Louis’ cock, driving him _mad_ ,and Louis can’t move his wrists.

 

“Are you going to mind your manners now, Princess?” Nick asks, overly polite, and Louis forces a _yes_ through gritted teeth. There’s something about Nick that makes him feel like he’s always, always losing the upper hand, and he can’t stand it.

 

Satisfied, Nick ducks his head and takes Louis _all_ the way down, his cock hitting the back of his throat, and suddenly Louis cares less about the upper hand.

 

Nick keeps one hand firmly clasped around Louis’ wrist, but the other trails down the back of his thigh, light, before rolling his balls in his palm. He lets his fingers dip lower, between Louis’ cheeks and tracing over his rim, and Louis’ whole body stiffens as he comes down Nick’s throat.

 

He’s hazy, trying to catch his breath as his racing heart slows down beat by beat. Orgasms always make him fuzzier than usual in the morning; he’s going to be dopey with it for hours. Nick’s got a hand in his pants, working himself over, his head pillowed on Louis’ thigh. Louis watches through lidded eyes as Nick’s long, long fingers twist over the head of his own cock, as his spine straightens and he lets out a quiet puff of air when his orgasm hits. He’s probably gotten come on the couch, or at least the carpet, but Louis can’t bring himself to mind while he’s watching Nick bite at his lips, eyelashes fanning the freckles on his cheeks.

 

***

 

The thing is, Nick doesn’t really _do_ boyfriends. He’s had them, sure, but he tends to get bored of them too quickly to feel anything deeper than lust and perhaps occasionally fondness. So, this _thing_ he and Louis have? It suits him just fine. Louis is ridiculously attractive, with his soft, silly hair and sharp features. They text almost constantly now – mostly judgemental, bitchy little things, because he can never text Harry like that without feeling guilty – and Nick takes Louis to all his favourite places just to hear why Louis thinks they’re shit. Nick gets to kiss him, and cuddle up to someone warm, and maybe have someone stroke his hair without bothering with any boyfriend tripe. It’s perfect.

 

Truthfully, he’s always seen Louis as the exact opposite of him. At the age of 20, he’s already bizarrely domesticated with a person who he’s (supposedly) not even dating. Nick is fairly certain he’s never spent more than an hour with Louis without him taking at least one phone call from his mother or one of his many sisters. He’s always fussing – the kind of boy who clearly thrives off having someone to take care of – and his over-the-top childish act doesn’t really hide how stable, how _dependable_ he is. At least, not as well as he clearly thinks it does.

 

So, Nick isn’t surprised when Louis meets his parents and absolutely dazzles them. It happens by accident, really. They run into each other at a trendy little cafe/deli, and Louis stops to introduce himself with a glint of something undefinable – most likely dangerous – in his eyes. Within ten minutes of conversation he’s charmed them so completely it’s terrifying. He’s sweet and courteous in a way Nick has never seen on him before, and his parents _love_ him. It’s honestly a little unfair.

 

“I’m just picking up a few things for my mother. She’s sick, so I’m heading over to help out with the girls,” Louis says. He’s holding a tub of chicken soup in one hand and flowers in the other. Nick can practically _see_ the hearts in his mother’s eyes, and his stomach flips a little.

 

“Aren’t you just a sweetheart,” She fawns, unable to resist pinching Louis’ cheek, “I had to twist Nick’s arm just to let us visit. Oh, you _have_ to come to tea with us tonight. We’d love to have you.”

 

Louis grins, self-satisfied, and glances sharply to Nick who’s trying to communicate the word “no” as violently as possible without moving his face.

 

“I’d love to, Leanne,” he smarms, “Anything to be in civilized company, for once. Just get Nick to text me the details?”

 

His mother laughs, flustered and pink, and even his father is smiling. The look Louis shoots him as he turns on his heel is pure, concentrated evil, like he’s gotten one over on Nick.

 

“Why didn’t you tell us about him?” Nick’s mother scolds as he watches Louis’ retreating back through the glass window, wondering what just happened.

 

“What’s there to tell?”

 

His father snorts, but doesn’t elaborate as he inspects his slice of carrot cake. Nick’s phone buzzes against his thigh with a text from Louis.

 

_By the end of tonight, I will be adopted and you will be disowned ... :) x_

 

***

 

“What’s wrong?” Harry asks the second Louis steps foot in their flat, because he’s some kind of bloodhound for emotions. “You’re nervous.”

 

He’s sitting on their couch; head tilted back all the way to see Louis at the front door.

 

“M’fine,” Louis replies, kicking off his shoes, “Just tired. The girls were a handful today.”

 

Harry gives him a sceptical look, which is even more ridiculous than usual as his face is currently upside-down. Louis resists for as long as he can - almost five seconds - before slumping down on the couch, legs in Harry’s lap.

 

“I ran into Nick’s parents this morning at the deli and they kind of invited me to dinner,” he spills. A massive grin splits Harry’s face.

 

“Lou, that’s _great_. The Grimshaws are lovely, seriously, you’ll be fine.”

 

Louis shakes his head, nibbling a fingernail absent-mindedly.

 

“He didn’t want me to say yes, I could tell. I agreed just to piss him off.”

 

That sceptical look returns to his face, and _really_ , someone as absurd as Harry Styles has no right to judge.

 

“Don’t, Styles,” Louis warns, “It’s nothing.”

 

Harry hums, cheeks dimpling as he tries to force himself not to smile. Louis aims a less-than-gentle kick at his ribs. Harry yelps, grabbing for his feet, so Louis grips his arms and wrestles him until he tips sideways off the couch, long legs kicking out wildly like an overturned beetle.

 

“Truce!” Harry squawks, even though _he’s_ the one in a heap on the floor and not really in a position to bargain. Louis grins, sliding off the couch with far more grace and poise to cuddle up next to Harry on the carpet.

 

“It’s not my fault you’ve got a giant crush on Grimmy,” Harry grumbles, but he slings an arm over Louis anyway. He can practically _hear_ the smugness in Harry’s smile, “I knew you’d like him. Honestly, I could be a matchmaker. I’m that good.”

 

Louis shakes his head, tucking his face against Harry’s neck.

 

“It’s not like that. He doesn’t want a boyfriend. And also, he’s _awful_ ,” Louis says, and it’s unconvincing even to his own ears.

 

“Oh, _bollocks_. He never stops talking about you. Every time he introduces me to a new band, he talks about how much you’d hate it. Every time we see a movie, he asks what you thought about it. Shit, every time you leave the _room_ he spends the next twenty minutes talking about everything you just did. It’s getting sort of pathetic, and you’re almost as bad yourself.”

 

“He doesn’t even like me,” Louis replies, but he’s smiling despite himself, “Do you really think so?”

 

Harry shrugs, nudging Louis’ shoulder and beaming with pride.

 

“How could he not love you? You’re _Lou_.”

 

***

 

Louis turns up at the restaurant exactly on time and absolutely _stunning_. Nick’s not ashamed to admit it. There’s not a hair out of place, and his green sweater makes his tanned skin look bright and golden. His father gives a little nod, as if to say _well done, son_. Nick appreciates the sentiment.

 

The dinner is more unfortunate than Nick could have imagined, and he ran through a fair few disastrous scenarios in his mind. He pictured Louis reducing his mother to tears by insulting her pantsuit, and Louis setting fire to his father’s beard with a cunningly placed candle, and Louis accidentally-on-purpose showing his parents the compromising photographs he took of Nick in bed last week.

 

It’s so, so much worse than any of that. Louis tells them about his little sisters, heart-meltingly proud, and talks about how much he misses his mum when he’s on tour. He compliments Nick’s mother on her new hair cut and discusses the latest football scores with his father, charming them both. He speaks about how one day, when One Direction has died down a bit, he wants to settle down somewhere and start a family. At one point, Nick’s fairly sure he can see tears shining in his mother’s eyes.

 

It becomes painfully obvious that he’s perhaps been an enormous idiot. Louis is so _earnest_ , so sweet, and there’s nothing calculated about it. He wants Nick’s parents to like him, and it’s not for some ulterior motive that will end with Nick the butt of a joke.

 

Nick’s mother clasps both of their hands, her rings pressing painfully into their fingers. She’s positively beaming.

 

“I’m just _so_ happy for the two of you. The way my Nick looked at you when you walked in... well, I haven’t seen that look on his face in a long time.”

 

Louis’ expression is strangled, a curious mixture of pleased and pained, and fuck, _fuck_ , Louis is _not_ his boyfriend. He doesn’t do boyfriends. For the past month he’s been sleeping with Louis – protective, affectionate Louis who pretends not to mother every person he knows whilst doing exactly that – he hasn’t taken him on a single proper date, and Louis wanted to meet his _parents_.

 

He barely speaks for the rest of the dinner, forcing himself to chew every bite of his pasta as slowly as possible. He tries his best to tune out what Louis is saying, because every word he says makes Nick feel like a bigger arsehole than ever before. It’s agony.

 

Nick refuses dessert on behalf of both of them – citing an early start for work in the morning – and all but runs out the door as Louis hugs both ( _both_ ) of his parents at the table, promising to see them soon. The cold air outside is like a slap in the face as Nick takes off down the street, Louis falling in step behind him without a word. The silence is palpable. Nick counts to ten, breathing deeply through his nose, before spinning to face Louis.

 

“Where did all that come from, then?” Nick asks, irrationally angry, and he can’t clear his mind enough to figure out why.

 

“What?” Louis asks, falsely innocent, very nearly running straight into him.

 

“Don’t give me that. My mum thinks we’re going to get bloody _married_ now. You don’t think you could’ve said something? Perhaps you could have gone with, ‘Nick, I realise we mostly just give each other angry blowjobs, but one day I’d really love to have a million of your babies and live in a cottage in the countryside’.”

 

Louis eyes are wide, shocked, and Nick can’t _bear_ it. He’s quiet for a minute, mouth moving soundlessly, before his face crumples, red with humiliation. He shoves sharply at Nick’s chest, forcing him to step back.

 

“You fucking _cunt_ ,” he spits, angry, “I can’t believe I wasted my time on this. Do you have any idea how _long_ I spent getting dressed for tonight? Or how many times I practiced what to say to your mum? _Fuck_ , Harry pretended to be your _dad_ for me. You make me act like a fucking _idiot_ , and you don’t even see it. You’re too busy trying to impress Harry by being the biggest hipster knob in the universe.”

 

Nick feels like he might be sick.

 

“You never said,” he says, voice quiet. He shakes his head, as if he might blink and make Louis disappear; this new Louis who looks vulnerable and unbearably disappointed and it’s all _his_ fault. This must be the Louis that everyone falls in love with, he thinks.

 

“No, I didn’t,” Louis sneers, “You’re an arrogant twat, you’re _way_ too old for me and I’m not usually this stupid, I’m _better_ than this.”

 

Nick swallows past the lump in his throat, and there’s absolute silence. Louis is breathing hard and Nick has no clue what to do, so he says nothing.

 

He says nothing as Louis squares his shoulders, says nothing as Louis shoves past him. Instead, he turns off his phone, walks home alone, and takes a bottle of wine to bed.

 

***

 

Nick wakes up to a roaring headache and six texts from Harry.

 

_Wht did you do????_

_NICK lou is really upset can u please tell me what happened hes just watching the first wives club and wont talk 2 me_

_niCK_

_i can’t believe u did this to him u absolute arsehole. i’ve a right mind to come over there and punch your teeth in mate_

_ok i definitely won’t do that and i’m sorry i hope ur not upset. but bros before hos and in this case your a ho. lou is amazing youve got no clue how upset he is you jerk_

_really we should talk about this txt me?? sorry_

 

Nick groans, throwing his phone as far across the bed as possible. He briefly and irrationally wishes that Louis was here to stroke his hair and coo at him in that unreasonably soothing way he has, so he wouldn’t feel so bad. But if Louis was here, he wouldn’t _have_ to feel bad, and, well.

 

Fuck.

 

He spends an entire morning with his thumb hovering over Louis’ name in his contacts, ignoring the twelve ( _twelve_ ) incoming calls from Harry, before eventually giving in and picking up.

 

“What’s _wrong_ with you?!” Harry demands, actually managing to sound threatening. Despite the circumstances, Nick is impressed.

 

“I’m really not in the mood to talk about it, funnily enough.”

 

“Stop being terrible. Have you called him?”

 

“I’ve no idea what I’d even say, Harry. Can’t you just leave it?”

 

“ _Leave it_?” Harry just about screeches directly into his ear, “Why don’t you try ‘I’m so sorry Louis, light of my life, let me grovel at your feet until you graciously forgive me’?”

 

“I’m hanging up now, love,” Nick replies, and ends the call to the tune of Harry’s rather creative cursing.

 

Harry texts him three apologies, followed by a threat, followed by another apology. It’s exhausting, really.

 

Nick doesn’t call Louis.

 

Instead, he cleans the entire house, does three loads of laundry, de-ices the freezer, and at the end of that he still hasn’t come to terms with the dreadful fact that he has an enormous, embarrassing crush on _Louis Tomlinson_ and managed to fuck it up completely in the space of about an hour.

 

He wonders if this is normal behaviour for twenty-seven-year-olds.

 

It takes him two more hours and several fortifying cups of tea before he gets up the courage to call. It’s pathetic, if truth be told.

 

“What.” Louis says flatly, picking up so late Nick was sure he’d get the answering machine.

 

“Erm,” Nick says, thrown, “Hello? Oh.”

 

There’s silence on the line, and Nick can practically feel Louis’ irritation radiating from the handset.

 

“I was thinking, we should probably meet up? And talk about it? Would that be okay?” he says, because when he’s nervous he becomes a lunatic who asks questions compulsively until someone shuts him up.

 

“No,” Louis says, stubborn. Nick hears fumbling, followed by what’s clearly Harry’s frantic whispering for at least a minute, before, “Okay, fine. I’ll be at yours in ten.”

 

“Sure, great, I’ll see you then?” Nick asks, _again_ , and gets hung up on. He fusses around the house some more to pass the time, stomaching fizzing, until he receives an ominous text from Harry.

 

_HE’S COMING OVER TO TALK TO U, IF HE COMES BACK AND IS SAD AT ALL I WILL LITERALLY KILL YOU_

There’s a knock at his door, and Nick tries to look calm instead of like he might throw up at any second.

 

Louis is scowling, defiant, his posture practically screaming that he’s ready for a fight. Nick mostly just wants to hug him.

 

“I’m not going to say I’m sorry,” Louis says, shouldering his way through the door, “I’m not. It was a mistake, and I honestly have no clue what I was thinking. We’d make a terrible couple, mostly because you’re a dreadful hipster.”

 

Nick had a speech prepared. He’d practiced it in the mirror and everything; going for casual and detached, yet understanding. He’s really not boyfriend material, see, and he really just thinks it’s best that they cut it off before either of them get in too deep. Instead, he says, “Would we?”

 

Louis frowns, his shoulders hunching.

 

“Would we what?”

 

“Make a terrible couple,” Nick says, because his brain is no longer attached to his mouth.

 

The thing is, Louis is sharp, and funny, and clever, and kind, and never lets Nick get away with _anything_ , and always knows when someone’s getting sick before they do. Nick _likes_ him, and he likes Nick back. Turns out, it’s actually the simplest thing in the world.

 

“I kind of, maybe, would quite like to be your boyfriend? If that’s alright?”

 

There’s a long, excruciating silence.

 

“You’re a twat,” Louis says, and then, “Really?”

 

Nick nods, wiping his palms on his jeans. Louis blinks, punches Nick ( _hard_ ) in the shoulder, and kisses him.

 

“Idiot,” he mumbles into the kiss, but he’s laughing, so Nick wraps his arms around Louis’ waist and tugs him up, forcing him onto his toes as they’re pressed together.

 

“I know,” Nick says, kissing Louis’ cheek, the tip of his nose, “You’ll just have to put up with that part, I’m afraid.”

 

“Don’t know if it’s worth it, to be honest,” Louis replies, throwing his arms around Nick’s shoulders and stretching up even further to nip at his chin.

 

“No? I’m quite sure I can make it worth your while.”

 

“You can _try_ ,” Louis replies, sly. Nick should really respond with something sharp, something witty.

 

“Can I fuck you?” he asks instead, because he’s incredibly smooth, and wonders if he’s about to get punched in the face this time. “Unless it’s too soon. It’s too soon, isn’t it? I’m being a tit, aren’t I?”

 

“Yes,” Louis rasps, cutting him off before he rambles forever, and it’s sexier than it has any right to be. Nick grins, giddy with it, and slips his hands under Louis’ shirt.

 

“Get your kit off, then.”

 

Louis untangles himself from Nick’s arm and turns, stripping off his shirt and trousers as he makes his way to Nick’s bedroom, giving Nick a _look_ over his shoulder. He tries manfully to not stare at Louis’ arse as he goes. It really is _magnificent_.

 

Louis spreads himself out on his back in the centre of the bed, face flushed. Nick artlessly shoves his trousers down as he retrieves the lube and a condom from the bedside table (hoping to _God_ his mother didn’t see that while she was over), trying not to trip over the legs as he crawls over Louis. He cups his hand just under the crook of Louis’ knee, pressing it back gently. His skin is warm, and he’s all hard muscle and soft curves; a light dusting of hair at the centre of his chest and small, pink nipples. Nick doesn’t think he’s ever had the time to just _look_. He must be taking too long, because Louis pushes his toes against Nick’s cheek, impatient.

 

“Alright, alright,” he mumbles, flicking open the cap and squeezing lube out with the same hand, letting it drip messily onto the sheets along with the condom. He leans over Louis as he presses one finger in, watching his face as he fights to keep his eyes from squeezing shut or his lips from twisting. He’s so utterly stubborn, so _Louis_ , Nick can’t help but smile.

 

“Another,” Louis demands, “Come on.”

 

Nick twists another finger in, dipping down for a kiss. Louis is tense, wound so tightly Nick is half afraid he’ll snap.

 

“Relax,” he says, aiming for soothing but landing somewhere closer to insufferable if Louis’ disgruntled huff is anything to go by.

 

“Just _do_ it, I’m ready,” he says, eagerly tearing open the discarded condom and rolling it over Nick’s cock. Nick raises a dubious eyebrow, but Louis _squeezes_ in retaliation and he sees stars. Smoothing the excess lube down his cock, lines himself up and pushes in.

 

Tries to push in, that is. Louis is _unbearably_ tight. He barely gets the head of his dick past the first ring of muscle before Louis is screwing up his face and his hands are flying up to clutch Nick’s shoulders, unable to stop his sharp little whimper; Nick pulls out as gently as he can.

 

“I can take it, _please_ ,” Louis chokes, nails digging into his shoulders as if to tug him back down. Nick shakes his head, tucking two fingers back inside and lowering himself till they’re pressed skin to skin. He quiets Louis’ protests with a kiss. Louis distracted, he fumbles for the tube of lube, squeezing directly onto his fingers as they slide inside. He sucks a mark just under Louis’ ear as he crooks his fingers in search of his prostate.

 

Nick feels it when he finds it, Louis’ back stiffening into an arch before melting back down into the mattress with these soft little _ahhs_. Nick grins into Louis’ neck, pressing his fingers up against that spot again, and again. It’s not such a vicious pressure inside now, and he scissors his fingers as Louis squirms underneath him.

 

“There you are, darling,” he hums, mostly just wanting to make noise. He can fit a third finger in now without much resistance and Louis just moans for it, hips tilting up to meet Nick’s hand. The tips of his fingers are tracing patterns on Nick’s shoulders, maybe connecting up the freckles he finds there; his breath is hot and sticky against Nick’s cheek.

 

He pulls his fingers out and lines himself up again, this time sinking in till he bottoms out. Louis shudders, his legs wrapping around Nick’s hips, and Nick drags his hand up Louis’ side to rest on the soft curve of his belly. Their breath is coming in short, sharp bursts, and Nick traces his thumb around Louis’ navel.

 

“Yeah?” he asks, circling his hips experimentally. Louis nods, licking his lips, so Nick pulls almost all the way out before sinking in again. It’s good. It’s really _fucking_ good. Louis squeezes around him, hips nudging Nick’s into a slow rhythm. Louis’ size is always something Nick forgets – probably down to a personality that could be politely referred to as _forceful_. But he feels so small like this, Nick’s body completely enveloping him, his knees pressed up to Nick’s ribs.

 

He’s making noise now and Nick speeds up, hips snapping in with more force. The flush has spread all the way down Louis’ chest now, and he kicks at Nick’s hip every time he nails Louis’ prostate. Nick can’t tell if he’s naturally this quiet while getting fucked or if he’s purposefully holding himself back – he’d always pictured Louis as a screamer, to be honest – so he goes harder, grinds in as deeply as he can.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Louis whines, and that seems to open up the floodgates. He’s moaning with every thrust now, twisting his hips up frantically and reaching down to guide Nick’s hand to his cock. Nick takes the hint, matching their rhythm with a little twist that makes Louis’ eyes roll back. His breath is coming short and fast now, and Nick can feel his orgasm curling warm in his belly, tingling in his toes. He captures Louis’ next moan with a kiss, throwing finesse out the window – it’s mostly teeth and tongue, but he’s finding it hard to give a fuck when Louis’ back is bowing and he’s coming all over Nick’s fist, practically sobbing into the kiss. Nick’s hips are snapping in, out of time as he strokes Louis through it.

 

Louis shivers, clenching down, and whispers, “Go on,” and Nick is _done_.  He comes so hard he thinks he might see _God_ , using his last remaining strength to not actually crush Louis completely as his arm gives out.

 

Once the fog behind his eyes clears, Nick manages to roll to the side; gently slipping out as he brings Louis with him. They lie together in a tangle of limbs and laboured breath, Louis’ warm body curled up somewhere at his side.

 

“My legs are numb,” Louis mutters into the crook of Nick’s elbow, leaving a kiss behind so light Nick’s not quite sure if he imagined it.

 

Louis’ cheeks are bright red, his fringe plastered to his forehead. There’s a stray eyelash on his cheek.

 

The thing is, Nick has no clue whatsoever how to be a boyfriend, really. After twenty-seven years, he’s still not quite comfortable saying _I love you_ to his own mother, let alone to another human being not contractually obliged by birth to say it back. But, he can say this,

 

“My parents are forcing me to take them to the farmer’s market tomorrow afternoon, if you’re. Well. You can always come, if you’d like?”

 

Louis looks up at him, dimples forming at the corners of his lips as he tries not to smile.

 

“You’re going soft on me,” he says, poking the sensitive flesh of Nick’s side and giving in to his grin.

 

“Seems a little rude,” Nick replies, glancing ridiculously down at his cock. Louis laughs, whole body shaking with it as he hides his eyes behind his hand, and Nick thinks maybe this is going to be okay.

 


End file.
